


burning bad lies

by thistidalwave



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bullying, Character Study, Gen, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Misogyny, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“how to be a monster:<br/>1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.<br/>2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.<br/>3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.”<br/>— rinse and repeat, <a>Amrita C.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	burning bad lies

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [KENT STOP, WON'T STOP: A Kent Parson Fanzine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272951) by [bbbbbw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbbbbw/pseuds/bbbbbw). 



> Originally featured in the Kent Stop, Won't Stop fanzine. Mega thanks to Bo for putting that together! 
> 
> **Warning** for internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs, bullying, and misogyny.

1.

Kent’s mom gets home from work late, just like always. Kent can hear her talking to his babysitter, a teenage girl who spends more time watching TV and eating all the snacks she finds in the pantry than she does actually taking care of Kent. Kent doesn’t mind so much. At least she shares the food, even if she won’t help him with his homework, and she doesn’t care if he’s actually asleep as long as he’s in his room.

A moment later, Kent hears the broken screen door slam shut as his babysitter leaves. He waits, listening to the sounds of his mom knocking around the kitchen, until she settles down in the living room, and then he gets out of bed.

The carpet of the living room is scratchy underneath his bare feet. The television is still tuned to MTV, the audio slightly fuzzy. His mom is sitting down, her head tipped back against the couch and her eyes closed. Kent sits down next to her and prods her in the side. 

“Hi, sweetie,” his mom murmurs. “You should be in bed.” 

“Can’t sleep,” Kent says. He slides closer so that he’s leaning against her, and she puts an arm around his shoulders. 

“Lucky you,” she tells him. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Kent says.

“Practice?” 

“Fine,” Kent says. 

“Good, that’s good,” his mom says. Kent can tell she’s on the verge of falling asleep not only from the exhaustion in her voice, but because she doesn’t tell him to elaborate at all. 

He bites his lip and fidgets with the soft fabric of his mom’s worn blouse. “Mom?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What if kids are being mean to me?” 

“Oh honey, mean how?” She starts petting his hair in slow strokes that make Kent want to cry more than they actually comfort him. 

Kent buries his face in her side and mumbles, “Just saying things, I dunno.”

“You gotta fight back, baby,” his mom says. “Don’t let ‘em get to you.”

Kent doesn’t know how to do that, and he wants to ask her to tell him, but her hand slowly stops moving and her breathing takes on a familiar pattern, and Kent knows she’s asleep. He stays sitting with her for another minute, then carefully moves away. He tugs the old quilt his grandmother gave them over his mom as best he can, tucking it in at the sides like she used to do for him, and then goes back to his own bed. 

He curls up facing the wall and falls asleep thinking _fight back_ over and over. 

— 

“Don’t worry about Parson,” Mike says. “He’s just a little faggot, anyway. You know people like that never make it to the big leagues.” 

Kent whirls around, t-shirt only half pulled on, and glares across the dressing room. Mike is looking back at him, one eyebrow raised as if daring Kent to do something. 

Kent is ten years old, and this is not the first time he’s heard that word. “What did you call me?” he spits, fists balled at his sides. 

“You’re a fag,” Mike says, the corners of his mouth curling up. Next to him, Davy and Adrian are snickering. Kent can feel his face flushing. He opens his mouth to retort, but he doesn’t know what to say. He turns back around, grabs his bag, and walks out of the dressing room with his head held high, teeth clenched. He can’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. 

He gets all the way to the arena doors before he realizes that he’s not wearing his shoes. He stares down at his sock feet and thinks about what it would be like to go back now. The sounds of laughter echo in his head.

He can’t. Fighting back is easier said than done. 

“Hey, Kent!” Kent snaps his head up to see Chris running down the hall toward him. He stops when he gets to Kent, wheezing. “Your shoes,” he says, offering them to Kent. “Don’t worry, I don’t think they saw that you left them.” 

Kent’s mouth is dry. He takes the beat-up sneakers from Chris and drops them on the ground so he can shove his feet into them. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome,” Chris says easily. “I don’t think you should listen to those guys, either. They’re just jealous.” 

Kent doesn’t know what there is to be jealous of. Sure, he’s the best player on their team, but hockey is all he has. Sometimes he thinks he would trade all his talent for friends. 

“Whatever,” he says, already halfway out the door. “Bye.” 

—

Kent’s coach pulls him aside after practice a few weeks later. Kent panics momentarily, wondering if someone told him what people have been saying in the locker room, but he opens with, “Good work today, Parson.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Kent says.

“I want you to remember that you’re the smallest one out there,” Coach says, as if Kent could ever forget. The battering he took from everyone else on the ice today isn’t exactly subtle. “You keep driving straight for the net, which is good, but just trying to slam your way through doesn’t work. You have more of a chance of scoring if you find the cracks in their defense and slip through them.”

Kent nods. He worries at a newly loose tooth with his tongue. His mouth tastes like blood.

“They won’t be able to catch you if you keep your head up and skate faster than them,” Coach finishes. “Got it?” 

“Got it,” Kent says.

 

2\. 

It’s a freezing cold November morning. Kent zips his jacket up to the top and shoves his gloved hands into his pockets, pressing himself farther into the alcove by the seventh grade entrance. He’s almost always the first one here.

Mike and Davy show up not too much later, though, both shivering. “Hey,” Kent says.

“Hey, Parse,” Davy says. “How’s it?”

“Cold as balls,” Kent replies.

Mike fruitlessly tries the door. “Damn, don’t they know it’s subarctic out here?”

“They love to torture us,” Davy says. They all nod solemnly. Davy perks up. “Hey, here comes the fun.”

Kent turns to look. Shuffling his way up the sidewalk is Chris, his beanie pulled down over his ears and his arms crossed in front of him. Mike grins. “Watch this, boys,” he says before running off toward Chris. He snags Chris’ beanie off his head as he passes by him, whooping with laughter. 

“Hey!” Chris protests, his hands flying to his head. Both Davy and Kent start laughing. 

“You want it?” Mike asks, waving the hat at Chris. “You’d better come get it.” 

Chris lunges for him, but Mike dances easily out of the way. “Give it _back_ ,” Chris says plaintively.

“ _Give it back!_ ” Mike mocks, his voice squeaky. “Yo, Davy!”

He tosses the hat to Davy, who catches it. “Nice,” Davy says approvingly, inspecting it. 

“Come on,” Chris says, trying to grab it. Davy is considerably taller than Chris and has no trouble holding it up out of his reach. “This isn’t funny, guys.”

They all laugh at that. Davy tosses the hat to Kent, and Chris whirls around, trying to catch it in the air. He misses entirely. 

“Kent,” he begs, holding his hands out. Kent turns the beanie over in his hands, smirking. It’s been years since he talked to Chris in any situation other than mocking him, but he remembers Chris bringing him his shoes every time. Chris is so different from that kid who was once nice to Kent, though. He doesn’t even play hockey anymore. Kent doesn’t have any obligation toward him at all. 

“I don’t think so,” Kent says, unzipping his jacket and tucking the hat inside. “I think I’ll keep this nice and safe for you.” 

Chris’ face is bright red, his eyes teary. “Aw, don’t start crying like a little bitch,” Mike says. “Parse is doing you a favor!”

“Man up, baby,” Kent says. “Ask me nicely later and maybe you’ll get it back.” 

Mike and Davy laugh like that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard Kent say. Chris stares at him, expression wounded. Kent looks away. 

—

There’s a new kid on the Bantam team. His name is Shane, and he’s from somewhere out west, Kent thinks. He doesn’t really know, because he was too busy trying not to stare at him to listen when they were introduced.

Kent is the team captain, so the coaches had asked him to make sure Shane settled in fine. Kent had figured that’d be no stress—he’d invite Shane to hang out with the guys, Shane would either say yes or no and in so doing cement his social status, and then they’d all move on with their lives.

That was before practice. After practice, with Shane walking around the dressing room in only a towel and Kent having to actively make himself stop looking, nothing seems no stress anymore.

He keeps thinking about Mike and the others calling him a fag when they were younger. He’d never thought there was any truth to that, because it was stupid and obviously not him. He’s not really interested in having a girlfriend, but that’s because he’s too focused on hockey. He can’t afford distractions. That’s what everyone is always telling him. 

Across the room, Shane leans down to get something out of his bag. Kent abruptly turns around—because he needs to find his comb. He’s not interested in anything Shane is doing. He’s not like that. He _can’t_ be like that.

Still, he had better keep his distance. Because Shane… Shane could be like that. He seems the type.

—

Kent’s mom cries when they get home from his middle school graduation. Kent stares at her in horror, one shoe on and the other kicked across the entryway. 

“Sorry,” she says. She’s still wearing her rain jacket, her car keys clutched in the hand she’s using to wipe her eyes. “You’re just growing up so fast. You’re going to be in _high school_.” 

“It’s just school, Mom,” Kent says, honestly baffled by her sudden display of emotion. He’s abruptly very, very glad that she waited until they were home to do this.

“It’s a milestone,” she says, sniffing slightly. “Aren’t you excited?” 

Kent isn’t. He’s still going to be on the same hockey team next year, and he’s still going to see the same people at school, even if the school itself is different. Nothing is really changing. Excited is what he would be if he gets drafted to the major juniors like he’s hoping for.

That’s not the answer his mom is looking for, though. “Um, I’m excited to make some new friends, I guess,” Kent says, as if he has any intention of that at all. 

His mom gives him a watery smile and tugs him in for a hug. Kent hugs her back and breathes in the scent of the perfume she wears for special occasions. 

 

3\. 

The only light in the supply closet is a dirty, bare bulb that hardly works. It’s only just enough to see by, but it reflects off the hair of the guy sucking a hickey into Kent’s neck. Kent fists his hands in it so that he doesn’t have to see it anymore.

The guy does something at the arena, Kent’s not entirely sure what or what his name is. He only knows that he likes the cut of his jawline and the way he fills out the back of his shirt too much, and that he’d been too obvious about it. There could have been worse consequences to that than this. Kent can taste them like failure at the back of his throat.

“You were amazing tonight,” the guy says. “Your hands, fuck.”

“Don’t talk about hockey,” Kent says, and then he shoves the guy to his knees. “In fact, don’t talk.” 

The guy is enthusiastic about sucking Kent off. Kent thinks it’s the best feeling he’s ever experienced, like all the feelings he should be having when his bros point out hot girls condensed into one minute. He can’t stop staring. He runs his thumb along the line of the guy’s cheekbone and is rewarded by the guy moaning. Kent gasps, then bites his lower lip.

Kent comes what would probably be embarrassingly quickly if the entire thing wasn’t already making him sick. This is definitely not the kind of friend his mom thought he’d be making in high school. He’s suddenly viscerally aware that even though almost everyone had left when they came in here, someone could still open the door.

There’s a line of Kent’s come on the guy’s face, and Kent wants to lick it off. His lip is throbbing where he was biting it.

“Do you—” 

“Get out,” Kent says, voice rasping. 

The guy’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Fuck _off_.” Kent shoves his dick back in his underwear and does up his fly. He pushes the guy’s shoulder, then grabs his collar and drags him in. “And don’t you even _think_ of telling anyone about this,” he spits in the guy’s face.

The guy wrenches himself out of Kent’s grip. “Fuck you,” he says. “I’m not the one who dragged us in here.”

Kent tries to punch him in the face, but he ducks out of the way too quickly and Kent’s fist makes contact with the corner of a shelving unit. He stares at the scrapes across his knuckles.

“You’re fucking crazy,” the guy says before finally, _finally_ leaving. Kent certainly feels crazy, his heart beating too fast in his chest. He wipes away the sweat on his forehead. He needs to shower. He needs to throw up. He needs to go back in time and not fucking do this. He feels disgusting, dirty and disappointing and wrong.

“Never again,” he mutters. This time when he punches the shelf, it’s on purpose. “Never again.” 

—

It isn’t even an important game. That’s the thing that will haunt Kent. It’s just a regular season game against a team that isn’t anywhere near them in the standings. 

#17 is clearly playing injured, and for good reason—he’s a damn good defenseman. Kent keeps catching him wincing, can see him breathing through the pain on the bench, but he can’t seem to get past him. Nobody can. It’s frustrating as hell. 

Late in the second period, they’re one down and unable to make anything happen. Kent takes matters into his own hands. Instead of going straight for the puck when #17 has it, Kent skates at him hard and checks him perfectly the wrong way into the boards. The hit is just this side of legal, and when #17 goes down, he stays down. 

He gets escorted off the ice by medics, and he doesn’t return to the game. His team is clearly rattled, and just like that, Kent’s team starts scoring. 

Kent keeps thinking about the hit, replaying it over and over in his head. Adrian knocks fists with him at the intermission and tells him it was nasty. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, and neither do all the people nodding along, but it makes Kent feel uneasy anyway.

They wipe the floor with the other team, winning the game 7 - 2. Even in the middle of their celebratory huddle, Kent is worrying about #17. What if the aggravation to his injury makes it permanent? Did Kent just ruin someone’s career for—what, a win they didn’t need? 

He’s never felt this bad about himself for playing hockey before. He doesn’t like it. He makes a promise to himself to never to do something like that again. Hockey, at least, can be a place where he doesn't have to fight back by hitting first. 

— 

“What do you say we go somewhere… quieter?” Kendra asks, batting her eyelashes. Kent thinks distantly that she looks ridiculous as fuck when she does that. 

“Ooooh, Parse!” Mike crows. “Get some!” Everybody laughs and whoops loudly. Kent lets his mouth twist into a smile. 

Kendra’s hands are too warm against Kent’s skin. He moves his hand from her lower back to her ass, and she practically rubs her body against his. 

Kendra is hot, all long blonde hair and boobs shoved into a too-small dress. Mike is always going on about wanting to fuck her; he’s even eyeing her up right now. Kent thinks Mike probably wouldn’t know what to do if he got the chance. He wishes there was a polite way to pass Kendra off to him anyway. 

Everyone is watching them. Kent’s head starts to throb, and he bends down so he can kiss Kendra. It’s sloppy, all tongue and no finesse, and it sparks a new round of jeers. Kendra’s fingernails dig into the side of Kent’s neck, and Kent’s stomach flips. That’s new.

“Upstairs?” Kent says, quiet but not so quiet that the people near them can’t hear. There’s no point if this is a secret.

Kendra nods and leads him to the stairs by the hand. Kent high fives people as they go, laughing when they tell him to wrap his dick up and to make it last. He’s never had a problem with either of those things.

Kendra drops to her knees as soon as they’ve got a bedroom door shut behind them, but Kent grabs her arm and tugs her back up. “That’s not going to be any fun for you,” he says. She looks confused. Kent doesn’t bother offering an explanation. He doesn’t think she needs to hear about him getting soft the first and only time he’d let a girl suck his dick. 

He fucks her instead, eyes closed or focused on the wall the entire time. When she drags her fingernails down his back, he tells her to do it harder. He comes the hardest he ever has and thinks maybe he’s getting better at this girl thing, just in time to leave all these stupid fucks he’s known his whole life behind.

“You’re weird,” Kendra says when they’re done. She’s got the comforter wrapped around her like her clothes aren’t right there. Kent hopes she doesn’t think they’re doing anything else here.

“Whatever, sweetheart,” Kent says. “You wanna go see if there’s anymore weed?” 

She does, thankfully.

— 

Kent has a brand-new driver’s license in his wallet next to his battered fake one, but he doesn’t have a car, so his mom drives him to Quebec. Kent highlights the route to his billet family’s address on three different maps before they leave and follows it carefully with his finger, watching the highway signs intently. Driving is cheaper than flying, but his mother’s beat-up Toyota isn’t exactly good on gas, and Kent is intrinsically aware that a wrong turn means more money. 

His mom keeps telling him to relax, everything is going to be fine. Kent thinks she’s saying it more for herself than anything. Then she reaches over and pries his fingers away from where they’re gripping onto the map. “Relax,” she repeats, smiling gently. Kent smiles back and tries his hardest.

They pick a motel just off the highway by Montreal to stop at for the night. It’s not nice by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s not worse than anywhere Kent’s stayed on road trips with the team. At least this time he gets an entire bed to himself, and he didn’t even have to flip a coin for it. 

It’s hot as hell in the motel, their only source of relief a shitty ceiling fan. Kent lies awake for a long time, listening to his mother breathe and thinking of each of his muscles as a rope he’s letting go slack. When he wakes up the next morning, he’s still tense. 

They get to his billet family’s house just after noon. It’s in a nice part of town, where all the lawns are perfectly green, the flowerbeds are blooming, and the houses all look the same. The only way Kent is sure that they’re in the right place is the cedar wood sign on their front lawn that proudly declares it in the Bodechon residence. Kent feels out of place even before his billet parents greet them at the door and show them where to put their shoes—because of course they don’t wear shoes inside on the nice plush carpet. 

The Bodechons are a very French couple, but they do speak pretty good English, which Kent is endlessly grateful for. They talk constantly, telling Kent and his mother all sorts of inane things about the town and their house and what they did to prepare for Kent’s arrival. 

Mr. Bodechon volunteers to haul in all Kent’s things from the car. “Your hockey bag is bigger than your suitcase!” he jokes as he does so. “Are you sure this is it?” 

“That’s it,” Kent confirms, glad that his mother is in the kitchen chatting and didn’t hear. 

The room he shows Kent to is twice as big as his room at home, and he gets a bathroom to himself. “I hope you like it,” Mr. Bodechon says, sounding almost nervous. 

Kent doesn’t know if he does, really. “I’m sure I’ll be comfortable here,” he says. “Thanks.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Mr. Bodechon assures him as they head back down the stairs. “The house was getting a bit… quiet.” 

“Oh,” Kent says. “Well, I’ll try not to throw any ragers right away then. Better ease you into it.” 

Mr. Bodechon looks taken aback, then laughs. “We’re going to have fun with you, I think.” 

Kent feels a little wary about that, but he nods. His ideal billet family, he thinks, is one that just lets him be. He’s used to having a lot of freedom, and he really doesn’t want his life to suddenly be all rules, all the time. “I’m just here to play hockey,” he says honestly. Mr. Bodechon grins and pats him on the back. It’s such a fatherly move that Kent is struck dumb for a moment.

“How’s your room?” his mom asks, spotting them just outside the kitchen. Kent snaps out of it. 

“It’s nice,” Kent says. “You’ll have to come see before you go.” 

“Oh, are you leaving soon?” Mrs. Bodechon asks. “We were thinking about making you dinner.” 

“It’s a long drive back to New York,” Kent’s mom says. “But thank you so much, it was so lovely to meet you. And thank you for taking Kent in.” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Bodechon says. “We’re glad to have him.” 

Kent walks his mom to the car. They stand awkwardly by it, staring at each other, until Kent gives in and hugs her. She returns it, squeezing lightly before letting go. “Call me,” she tells him.

“We didn’t get me a cell for nothing,” Kent agrees. Then, quickly, he adds, “I’ll miss you.” 

His mom smiles. “With all this?” she asks, gesturing to the house and the neighborhood. “And professional hockey? You’ll barely even think of me.” 

Kent wants to tell her no, that all of this is just one big fuck you to everyone who ever talked down to him. He wants to tell her that someday she’s going to live in a neighborhood better than this one, in a house bigger than this one, because she worked so hard to get Kent here, and Kent is going to work just as hard to get to the top so he can repay her. He wants to tell her that ever since he was eight years old and she told him to fight back, he’s been doing his best every single second of the day. 

He can’t find the words, though, and he thinks she knows anyway. “Yeah, okay,” he says instead. “You’re right.” 

“Always am, kid,” she says, ruffling his hair. He bats her hand away and smooths back his hair. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Kent says. He watches her get in the car, then waits as she backs down the driveway and out onto the street. She waves, so Kent waves back, and he watches until she turns at the end of the street and he can’t see her anymore. It’s a temporary goodbye, obviously, but Kent can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than that. 

He puts the feeling out of his mind, squares his shoulders, and goes back inside the house.


End file.
